locked out

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 17 July 2021].}

So today, continuing the theme for the year, the result for the PCR test I took yesterday came back positive for Covid-19.

Because, of course.

Though, hilariously, because of everything else that's already happened this year, somehow, this is the least upsetting or disappointing piece of news I've received in the past seven to eight months.

It just seems like another piece of the puzzle that is my 2021.

Thank Science, I'd already had one dose of the vaccine, so the worst of it already seems to have passed.

No thanks to all the English football fans on the Tube on Sunday shouting 'It's coming home!' at the top of their lungs. While wearing masks around their necks instead of over their massive gobs.

Even with all my obsessive hand-sanitising, masking and not touching a damned thing while commuting, I'm sure that's where I caught it. And based on my symptoms, I'd lay bets it was the much more contagious (but, thankfully, less deadly) Delta strain.

Amusingly, today, as I completed the NHS Test and Trace documentation after receiving my results, I realised I have, in fact, lost my sense of smell. Though not my sense of taste.

To confirm this, I:

• sniffed heavily of my dried thyme (which has been my go-to for checking for covid previously),

• stuck my nose into a large jar of peanut butter, and

• sniffed rosemary and oregano in their bottles.

All registered a complete blank for scent.

Despite not having showered since leaving the flat at 11:30 yesterday to go for the PCR test, further confirmation has been provided by my apparent lack of body odour at 19:00 the next day. Anyone who knows me and knows how I sweat in 26-degree heat (yesterday's temperature), especially after walking for more than 90 minutes, knows this is a physical impossibility. My sense of smell has definitely left the building.

And, I guess, so has my shock and indignation at anything 2021 has left to throw at me.

mushed rooms

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 16 July 2021].}

The past two days have mostly been a write-off.

Apart from an official call, some personal calls, a chat with a good friend on FB Messenger and a couple of minor tasks yesterday, I spent most of the day sleeping or trying to sleep. I managed to eat and keep my fluids up, but not much else.

Wednesday and Thursday brought a day and a half of coughing, headaches and mild temperatures. In the wee hours of this morning, I must have had a fever, as I woke up with my t-shirt drenched and clinging to me. So today, I went to the nearest walk-through Covid-19 testing site for my first ever PCR test.

I still feel it's more likely just a head cold knocking me for six after not being ill since early in 2019. But there were enough potential signs from both the early variants and the Delta variant for me to err on the side of caution and do the right thing by my fellow citizens.

Thankfully, by this morning, I felt more confident in my ability to complete a 90-minute round-trip on foot to the testing centre. Unfortunately, I was still too out of it to think about putting on SPF50 for the journey.

If I had thought of it, I possibly also would have worried about sunscreen contaminating the test. But, at least, I would have slathered the sunscreen on my arms and taken it with me to apply to my face for the return journey.

Alas, no good deed goes unpunished. So, to add to my poor health, I now have a fierce sunburn on my forehead, nose, upper arms and around the front of my neck. Suffice to say, the sunburn didn't improve my headache any.

On the positive side (thank goodness there is almost always a positive side!): I took a detour on the way back through Tottenham Cemetery, including a wander around the lake there, a few glimpses of the River Moselle, and communed with the Canadian geese, pigeons, squirrels, and some other birds I didn't recognise.

I'm feeling vaguely more human now. Enough to do some small pieces, like edit the above image to share with you. But I'll likely call it a night again soon and hope my test results come back negative tomorrow and that this was all just a nasty head cold.

Either way - and at the risk of cursing myself - I seem to have passed the worst of it now.

For those who'd like to know: I spotted these fellows at the base of a tree in The Royal Oak's car park in Ashbourne as I was departing the hotel after a hearty breakfast with my parents in June 2017.

I hope you're keeping well xx

wrinkled

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 9 July 2021].}

If I recall correctly - and the metadata would seem to support my belief - these fun guys were growing on the edge of Cornubia Lutheran Cemetery. Also known as Carbrook Lutheran Cemetery, it's a private cemetery.

There were three different types of fungi growing there that I photographed. I also have photos of some developing fungi, but I'd need to confirm which mushrooms they're the babes of.

These were taken the day after my birthday in 2009. My parents and I took a drive together to explore what ended up being three different cemeteries in the area around where they lived at the time.

Those closest to me know me well and indulge my photographic obsessions. I'm thankful those people have included my parents. Even if they, like others, have rolled their eyes from time to time. Or chosen not to look at photographs I've taken of roadkill or other disturbing subjects I've captured.

Yesterday evening ended up being less productive than planned.

Against my better judgment, I let myself engage with anti-vaxxers on Nextdoor for the first time in a while. I shouldn't have.

After doing some chores around the flat ahead of tomorrow's viewing, I also let myself watch some US right-wing media indulging in bullshit talking points. Call it masochism, but I tend to do it to ensure that I'm seeing this stuff in context and not automatically taking the left-wing media's side of the story. Every single time, watching the entire piece is more damning than any left-wing analysis of soundbites from it.

Every. Single. Time.

I'm constantly amazed by what people will believe. How gullible and lacking in critical thinking they must be to not question what they're being sold. How blatant the bullshit is. It's gobsmacking, and I regularly want to shake these presenters, "journalists", whatever you want to call them. ("Shaking" is the least violent action I can think of. And I'm not a violent person, but many of these people incite violent responses in me).

Related: last night, I watched the penultimate episode of Can't Get You Out of My Head: An Emotional History of the Modern World, a six-part BBC documentary created by British filmmaker Adam Curtis.

I'm generally not a fan of libertarianism (at least not the way it's been co-opted by the right-wing). And that seems to be how Curtis most closely identifies himself, though he doesn't really identify himself as anything politically. But I've learned a lot/been inspired to learn more through watching the series. And the first four episodes inspired much deeper discussions about the content and narrative when I wasn't watching them alone.

Having not yet watched the final episode, I don't exactly know where Curtis is leading. And from past experience, he's very good at identifying issues but not providing any solutions and making the viewer feel even more helpless and demoralised than before viewing (see: Hypernormalisation). But episode five definitely seemed to endorse a more critical review of what Brits and Americans - and by extension, Australians - have been taught about the mythological history of their countries. Which is especially relevant right now, in my opinion.

PS: This took me far longer than it should have to edit and post because of the regular excessive noise from my neighbours over my back fence. It should have been shared an hour ago. Please remind me why I'm signing up for a new 12-month lease soon..?

metropolis

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 3 July 2021].}

Here's a miniature city I found in the churchyard of the Parish Church of St Cuthbert in Edinburgh during a visit in 2011.

The theme of this week appears to have been communication and reconnection.

Not to be outdone by Anna and Penny, my friend Feih gave me a call on Tuesday that ran for 5 hours and 42 minutes. A long but enjoyable catch-up for the first time since early January.

On Wednesday, a much shorter call with Phil, but we still clocked up about 2.5 hours. And then a fairly standard length - two hours - video call via Skype with my Dad in the wee hours of this morning.

On Wednesday, I woke to some good news, finally. More information from my landlord meant my stress levels about finances have dropped somewhat.

On Tuesday evening, I'd found out the contract work I've been doing was expected to increase for a bit. But then, to counteract the good news on Wednesday, we were updated late this afternoon that there won't be any more work from Monday. At this stage, it's not clear if it's a brief hiatus or the end of the projects we've been working on.

I hope you've had a good week and connected or reconnected with people who make you feel special and loved xx

untitled #26

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 25 June 2021].}

So, I've known this was coming since December last year, but it took longer than expected.

Subsequently, it's landed at arguably the worst possible moment for me: my flatmate has given notice tonight that he's moving out at the end of next month.

untitled #25

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 25 June 2021].}

I've decided it's about time my collection of fungi images were brought out of the dark and into the light more regularly.

So welcome to a new curated series I'll share with you going forward on #FungiFriday: the fungus among us.

This fellow was perched on the side of a tree on the side of the path on Parkland Walk.

untitled #41

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 21 June 2021].}

A simple, calm photograph for you today.

Nice light on those pine cones.

The past couple of days have also been calm. Productive. Focussed. Things I don't feel like I've felt for months now, though I'm sure there were some days in there that fit that description.

Sleep Cycle tells me I had 100% sleep quality on Saturday night/Sunday morning. That is unheard of for me. Even when I went to New Zealand in 2018, my first high-quality sleep wasn't that high.

But last night/this morning was full of stressful dreams and arguments in my sleep with a former lover from years ago, leaving me emotionally exhausted upon waking.

Tonight, I spent the evening working on photos for my Love Letters to London series while listening to one of my homemade Spotify playlists, Better Together.

I have plans made with a friend or two to catch up in person this weekend. A phone call with a friend back in Australia scheduled for the wee hours of Friday morning. Maybe a call with Dad in a little while.

Plans tentatively made for a London photo walk in August with a friend; plans years in the making. A plan to meet the same friend for a long weekend in Chichester in late September, presuming we're not back in lockdown again then.

And - if the weather is as forecast and I'm not feeling too lazy - I'll see how far I can make it along the New River Path (the London stretch). One day this week, when it's closer to 20 than 25 degrees and the rain has paused.

I hope your week is off to a good start x

'til death do us part

She wondered to herself - not for the first time - how many other's parents had set the bar for romantic relationships so high. So high that their children's expectations for their own relationships seemed a pipe dream. That anything less than what their parents had was a pale imitation. Anything else left them feeling wanting.

Her parents had shared everything. They had no secrets from each other. They trusted each other implicitly and loved each other unconditionally.

They supported and encouraged each other. Cared for each other and lost sleep worrying about each other.

They talked about everything, and they made decisions as a couple, as a partnership. All the way through their marriage until her mother's dementia meant she couldn't make decisions or talk about things in the same way.

Neither of them dictated anything to the other or made the other feel bad for asking questions. Indeed, most questions were answered before needing to be asked. Their relationship was one of open dialogue and transparency. Always.

There were never any power games. Never the sense that one made the other feel they were being given or denied a treat by being able to see the other more or less. When, how and where they met was a mutual decision. They wanted to see each other equally and showed no restraint from either side.

Her mother became part of her father's family and vice versa. She came from a very affectionate family into one less so. But her mother gradually coaxed her husband's family into the habit of hugs rather than handshakes. Growing up with an aunt whose catch-cry was "kissy-up, kissy-up" on arrival and on leaving her home encouraged her mother to engender that level of affection in her father's family. Though she saved kisses on the lips for her husband alone.

She grew up with the example of intimate and affectionate parents. Even as they grew older, she watched them reach for each other's hands as she walked along the streets of London with them. Instinctive and natural.

Their friends were their friends. Not her mother or her father's. The friendships may originally have been made or found through one. But they became mutual friends her parents spent time with, both together and apart.

There was never any compartmentalisation in their relationship, their relationships with others and their lives. They even worked together side-by-side for about 10 years.

Their weight gains and losses were irrelevant. They were the same people beneath the flesh and bones, so what did weight matter?

As her mother's dementia took hold, she saw how it broke her father's heart. His best friend, lover, partner and confidante of almost fifty years changed. Her mother saw him as a stranger, and he recognised the real her only in glimpses of lucidness. But he has never stopped loving her.

In her own life, she felt she'd never truly experienced what they had. What they have.

Others might argue that what she sought was a romantic fantasy. But she'd witnessed it growing up, so she knew it wasn't just in her imagination.

Sure, she knew their marriage wasn't perfect. Their relationship wasn't perfect. None are. But they worked through anything that might have created an issue. And came out stronger together on the other side.

But what she witnessed of their relationship over more than forty years of her life was always one of love, trust, openness, communication, honesty, affection, adoration and longevity. Damn near perfection, in her eyes.

And so far, she'd only had glimpses of pieces of what they had in her own life. Samples. Tasters. But nothing that stood up to the same tests. Nothing that lasted long enough or brought as much happiness as that she'd witnessed watching her parents as she grew from a child to a teenager, a teenager to an adult.

Everything she had experienced felt like a shadow of what she'd witnessed.

When it came to her own relationships, she viewed the possibility of something even three-quarters as good as what they'd had as a chimaera. Something she hoped for but felt she would never achieve or realise. The stuff of dreams. A fantasy.

Except she knew it could be real.

So she kept seeking it out. Hoping against hope. Believing that maybe, just maybe…

But again and again, she returned to the thought that maybe her parents had set the bar too high. Raised her expectations of what love and "forever" might be to something only achievable for a select few; for people of previous generations, perhaps. But not for her.

She thought, not for the first time: maybe she should just let go of all expectations. And forget 'til death do us part, even if it didn't involve any formal declaration or ceremony. Clearly, it wasn't meant to be.

a gentle reminder

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 19 June 2021].}

A second long, emotionally exhausting call today. The final clarification. Confirmation of the closing of a chapter.

I got some answers. I got an answer I expected, but that still stung and disappointed me.

At the end of it all, I still feel there are puzzle pieces forever lost down the back of the couch. But the jigsaw was thrown out months ago, so does it really matter anymore?

After the call and freshening up, I ventured outside into an overcast day.

And there, in our garden, just by the path across the front of the building, I saw a poppy.

I've never seen them in our garden in all of the five years I've lived here. But there are also some - yet to flower - along the main path. I noticed them on my return from the supermarket.

I took some photos with my phone on the way out but took my D700 down to take some more once I had returned and put away my purchases.

Seeing this delicate beauty in my yard - seemingly having appeared out of nowhere - was a gentle reminder to me on a day like today. When everything feels like it's gone to shite, that even in darkness, there is beauty.

There are new beginnings to be discovered and embraced. Unexpected but treasured.

The past two years have been difficult and stressful for me for so many reasons, and the past six months feels like it has reached a fever pitch.

Maybe this final gut-punch is what I need to move forward and find my focus again. Focus that's been gone for too long. But particularly so in the past year.

I value genuine lovers, close relationships, loyalty, honesty and openness. But I've never defined myself by my romantic relationships.

I've never needed a relationship to prove my self-worth, and sometimes they actually serve to make me lose sight of my own self-worth and direction.

To lose focus by creating a distraction and additional problems to solve, instead of solving the most important things I should be focussing on.

And, at times like these, I'm reminded that I crave new beginnings. New seasons of self. And the blossoming of new ideas and opportunities.

Here's to new beginnings.

catford centre

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 17 June 2021].}

I don't know about you, but I needed something visually irreverent today.

I captured this fella while out shopping for furnishings with Sophie in August 2018.

I discovered some charity shop gems that day like these chairs and Manchester City Mary. But my current furnished abode is already overstuffed with furniture and prints, so I settled for capturing them with my iPhone rather than purchasing them.

Having had dogs as family pets from about four years old, I've always been a dog person rather than a cat person. I used to really dislike cats.

There are still some aspects that make me question if I could ever live with one full time.

And I still love dogs and squee every time I see a "Quincy" (miniature schnauzer) or an "Elvie" (wire-haired fox terrier) when out and about.

But I grew to appreciate cats more over the past couple of years.

I think, in the end, I've come to understand that I'm an "animal person". I'm not exclusively a "dog person", and I'm no longer "absolutely not" a "cat person".

I just wish relationships with other humans were as uncomplicated and unconditional as with pets.

I miss having a dog companion to sense your sadness and push it away with their cold, wet nose, silly wagging tail and sloppy kisses.

A canine friend to share your excitement and happiness. To dance on hind legs with you.

A snuggly pup who can curl into your body on the couch or on the bed, and you know all they want is to love and be loved in return. And maybe some belly scratches.

And as long as you can give them that (and food and exercise), you're good enough. You're their everything. No matter how complicated or messy that everything might be.

I'm still not sure felines have that down pat yet.

moss yew like crazy

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 15 June 2021].}

Sometimes obsessively checking in on Swarm pays off.

A couple of weeks ago, wandering around the churchyard at St Andrew's in Totteridge with my camera, I checked in on Swarm. As my check-in was recorded, I was tipped off that I was within metres of possibly the oldest tree in London.

A tree that, to be honest, I would likely have overlooked otherwise. But I was so pleased I didn't, as it was so much more interesting (and photogenic) than I realised until I got closer to it.

The yew tree in the churchyard is believed to be 2,000 years old. If true, that would make it the oldest tree in London. It is considered one of the Great Trees of London either way.

Though inclined to tree-climbing as a child, it's been a long time since I've felt the urge or the confidence to attempt such things. This tree and its boughs felt somehow tempting and welcoming, though I resisted the urge to climb into its arms.

Instead, I settled for capturing some abstract details of the trunk, the moss upon its surface, and the whorled and distorted shapes it presented to my lens.

Its shapes and colours reminded me of an oil slick. A terrain map. An aerial view of another planet.

mayfly graveyard in the sky

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 8 June 2021].}

I wanted to call this suspended animation. But the mayflies were definitely not still alive in any interpretation of the word.

These fellows made their presence known along the River Lea in Hertford last Monday when Simon and I ventured out for the day. I didn't know what they were at the time but found out tonight.

I found this line from the Encyclopedia Brittanica entry about the mayfly particularly drew my eye, though, thankfully, we didn't notice that at the time:

"The winged stages attract attention through mass emergences when they may make roads slippery, clog gutters, and taint the air with an odour of decay."

Today was calmer and more positive, despite a rocky start before going to bed in the wee hours of the morning.

For a start, my periodontist appointment was nowhere near as painful as I'd expected it would be after some relapses into bad habits in the past six months.

I have a new design/social media project to work on for a former colleague. I also have a research role I want to throw my hat in the ring for tomorrow.

And I've decided to try - as far as possible - to share a photo a day with you. And by "day", that may mean it carries over into the next day, technically. But as long as I'm awake, it's the same day, right?

Sometimes with a diary-like entry, like this one and my previous post. Other times, just an image.

Forgive me in advance if it doesn't happen every day, but I'll try.

The photos will be whatever fits my whims at the time. Perhaps something to reflect my feelings, the day I've had or just something random.

My other weekly themed shares will continue, and I'm still working on my Love letters to London, I promise.

I also bought a dust-free eraser and a putty eraser today. I want to continue sketching when I have the time and energy. I won't share everything I draw but, hopefully, there will be sketches I want to share from time to time.

My latest earworms are linked below. Two out of three feature Robert Smith from The Cure, one of my constant inspirations since about 1989. I spent many an evening writing terrible teenage poetry by candlelight while listening to Wish. Simpler days, though still full of angst.

How not to drown - Chvrches featuring Robert Smith

He said she said - Chvrches

Not in love - Crystal Castles featuring Robert Smith

Thanks to Chris for bringing the Crystal Castles track to my attention.

a late bloomer

^{[I originally posted this entry as early access for my Patreon patrons on 19 July 2020].}

As I'm sure is the case with many during the current pandemic, my unemployment has meant that this time has been one of personal projects.

Obviously, my 100 Day Project was one of them though I would have tried to undertake it even when employed full-time. And very little of my project directly referenced the current global crisis.

My situation wasn't directly caused by the pandemic. My redundancy was due to a restructure already in the planning before coronavirus reared its ugly head.

The pandemic has had relatively little impact on my life in that I'm an introvert who spends a lot of time at home, indoors, working on my own projects when not in my day job.

In all honesty, had I been made redundant at any other time, life would have been much the same for the past four to five months.

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untitled #16

The greatest exceptions:

• I wouldn't have washed my hands so often and obsessively.

• I would have been able to take at least one city break with Simon.

• I would have spent more time in pubs.

• I would have spent more time in galleries.

• I would have spent more time face-to-face with friends.

• I would have spent less time on videoconference platforms.

• I would probably not have been able to spend quite so much time on my 100 Day Project. It may have been incomplete or not completed within 100 consecutive days.

• I would have spent a lot of downtime in the gym losing weight and enjoying BodyPump and yoga classes to regain flexibility, balance and strengthening my ankle.

• I might have seen more films at the cinema.

• I probably wouldn't have cooked as much.

• I probably wouldn't have grown or resurrected as many plants as I have. And I definitely wouldn't have been able to start to develop our front garden with the aid of Simon and my downstairs neighbour (whose garden it, in fact, is).

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untitled #13

And this last project is one that has, surprisingly, taken up a large part of the past week (and before that, many conversations and time spent researching, contemplating and planning).

Surprising mainly because I've never really been a green thumb at all. Mostly my thumbs (and the rest of my digits and palms and half my forearms) were purple or red from picking mulberries and strawberries in my parents' garden. That's as close to gardening as I ever used to get.

Although our front garden is a work in progress, it's taking shape well so far. Hopefully, most of it will be completed within the next few days, slightly behind schedule.

Our front garden is not nearly ready enough to unveil. But thinking about it this evening reminded me of my visit to Helmingham Hall with my parents in June 2017.

Despite the gardens being a little knocked around from a storm the day before, they were quite impressive and gave me plenty of opportunities to focus my lens on the colours and shapes around me.

So I thought I'd share some photos I took in the gardens at Helmingham Hall. And hopefully, I can share some from my own garden soon.

What projects have you been focussing on during the pandemic, whether in lockdown or not?

fairy stories

As she flicked through the brightly coloured pages, the smell of the paper, the ink on paper, wafted into her nostrils in great waves. It drew her back. Back to the sunny front room of her family's home in Aspley. The sun falling on the pages of the book of fairy stories her grandparents had given her for her sixth birthday. She lay on her belly, propped up on her elbows on the green and black mattress of the stacked beds in her mother's sewing room. She was utterly engrossed by the tales of witches, evil stepmothers, princesses, princes, cats, wolves, frogs, soldiers, giants, pigs, bears, genies, elves, dwarves and birds of many varieties.

Since learning to read she had devoured books. She completely lost herself in the worlds they created. Even when there were no pictures to accompany the words she could see the imaginary worlds in her mind's eye. The faces of the characters, the houses they resided in, the cities they inhabited.

At six years of age, of course the concept of princes and princesses was alluring. She asked her mother how you became a princess. Her mother told her you had to have blue blood. She pressed her fingertips against the veins in her arms and swore the rivers that flowed below the skin were blue, but whenever she grazed her knee in the yard or the doctor took blood it was always, disappointingly, a deep crimson colour. Not blue at all. She had not been born to be a princess.

As she grew older she learned more about fairy stories. Their origins as warnings to children about the dangers of nature, of predatory adults, of greed, sin, pride and such. She learned the stories she grew up with were sanitised, censored, made palatable for consumption before bed without driving small children to nightmares, though originally they were intended to strike fear to the very heart of children to keep them close to home and out of danger. The darkness that inhabited the original fairy stories was muted to a dark grey, instead of a deep, deep black. Gruesome endings became happy. Good conquered evil, always.

As she grew older she grew to prefer the darkness of the original stories. There was more reality in the original stories, though they were often heartbreaking. The darkness of the stories drew her in much more than the saccharine, over-bright palate of the stories she read as a child.

She wanted less and less to be saved by a handsome prince, and more and more to save herself. Or be an intelligent woman and avoid any of the traps that befell those princesses in the first place.

She grew up to learn the reality of princes and princesses was one of decisions made for them by others. Everything was strategy and allegiances; not love. For all the romantic stories she grew up on, history told her those were just stories. The realities were about diplomacy, alliances, war, peace, and cold, hard cash. Most princes and princesses were puppets without the free will to choose their love, to choose their lovers.

And yet, the myth of the perfect, all-encompassing love continued to endure in her mind. It pervaded everything, blinding her to the realities of this imperfect world she inhabited. A world that shared more in common with the original brutal fairy tales of the Grimm Brothers and their compatriots. A world not easily drawn into the whims of a ceaseless romantic who truly should have outgrown this fantasy world well before now.

And yet. And yet she grasped onto this ideal with white knuckles.

She built a castle around herself. She secured the moat, drew up the drawbridge, surrounded herself with soldiers to keep this ideal safe away from the bruising realities of life. Perched on a mountain top, she surveyed the lands around and wondered from which direction this one true love would emerge. She gazed across the lands around her, wondering when it would emerge. She waited. And waited.

And still, somehow, the cynicism that drew her away from dreams of princes and princesses and fortunes and kingdoms and all of that pomp and circumstance didn't seem to dim her belief in something she had still yet to see or to have known to even be sure that it existed. Her belief in logic, in fact, in truth; that all took a back seat to her undying belief in something more when it came to love. Despite her better judgement.

into the blue

They walked together in the cold dusk air in silence. Holding hands, gazing up at the clouds moving across the sky. The clouds transforming, breaking apart and reforming, moulded by the wind before their eyes. The blue hour came and went as they walked along the beach; a layer of sand clinging to their damp feet, the excess falling from their toes as they walked. The clouds, at first plump and white before sunset, became thin and wispy and moved at the whim of the salty night air. As the sky darkened and the sun disappeared below the horizon the clouds became less and less distinct from the sky. But as the moon rose in the sky and the clouds moved between them and it, the moon’s glow picked out the frayed edges of the clouds. They watched as the shapes of the clouds morphed, reminding each of them of one thing then another.

As they moved through the club, the music so loud they felt it in their bellies, the lights moved through their cycle of colours. Pink, red and yellow, then green, violet and blue. The strobe pulsed with the bass. Lighting up the dancefloor like a camera flash; capturing still moments while dancers moved in time with the music. She led him by the hand as they walked through the crowded club. They made a bee-line toward the dancefloor sticky with spilt drinks and humid from the sweat of so many bodies in such a small space. The smoke machine by the DJ's booth belched out coconut-scented smoke, masking the odour of so many sweaty bodies and the scent of sex. They danced for a while; favourite songs pouring out of the speakers. Their bodies in rhythm with each other from so many nights spent together on dancefloors around town. When they'd had enough they collapsed into each other on a stained and worn velour couch that's original colour was now hard to discern even when the house lights went up at 5 am. They sank blissfully into the couch and each other's arms.

They sat on the sand, the headlights from his car providing light for them to see each other by. Rugged up in coats and blankets, mittens and beanies, they curled up close to draw heat from each other. They couldn't light a fire on the beach, so they shivered in the spotlight of the low beams, watching the fog drift in from the sea and their warm breath billow against the cold night air. They giggled together as they attempted to blow smoke rings into the sky. The car radio, picking up the only station nearby, played a mixture of golden oldies, and love songs and dedications. They pressed their faces, blushed pink from the cold, together in an attempt to bring feeling back to flesh. Their warm breath mingled and rose into the cold night air as though from one person. They lay back to stare up at the cloudless sky and the stars overhead as the classic hits continued to pour from the tinny speakers in the car’s dashboard.

Their clothes were strewn behind them, discarded on the sand like breadcrumbs in fairytales, as they ran through the rain toward the waves. The beach was deserted this time of night, especially in this inclement weather. There was no one around to see their antics or their naked bodies as they ran into the water. The water still warm from the heat of the sun earlier in the day, but cooling on their skin. They waded together and splashed each other with the salty, foamy water as they moved into the shallows. As they sauntered further in they savoured the lapping tide moving against their bodies and the rain falling on their bare skin. The water now up to their waists, they clasped hands again and moved out until the water was almost up to their shoulders. They leaned their heads back in the water, lifting their feet off the seabed, floating with eyes up toward the sky. After allowing their bodies to float for a while, they swam together, heads under the water. They rolled over in the water from time to time and opened their eyes to look up at the night sky through the waves. Watching the ripples of moonlight and the lights along the boardwalk refracting through the water's surface. Marvelling at the patterns and shapes of light drifting through the water. Lost together in the beauty of the moment and submerged in their muted underwater world.

hideously beautiful

^{now playing: sandrine - beautifully ugly}

purveyor of alternate worlds

^{now playing: einsturzende neubaten - der weg ins freie}